


Saturday Night, Sunday Morning

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Coming Out, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-29
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-18 19:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sam is thinking he is probably the worst counsellor the LGBT community could hope for.</i> Written for the Prompt: "Chris is gay and closeted; Sam finds out." Written May 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday Night, Sunday Morning

**I.**   


  
`We are going to the Calgary,´ Ray announces as Gene drags them both out of the pub by their lapels.

`The fuck?´ Sam asks, his second drink only one-third drunk, pain as he is forced to leave it on the bar.

The pub (or rather pub-restaurant-hotel and none of those is actually true) is miles outside town, on the road to Castleford, past the Francis Johnson/Scandinavian-inspired bungalows and the strip-club.

This is all because the Guv is still angry that Litton won at darts tonight. Fuck it, he decided, I'm gonna crack some heads open tonight. Sam sighed and tagged along to prevent further damage -and because someone has to be there to do all the paperwork afterwards.

Ray explains the situation: there's this pub outside town, this shithole full of poofs and the Guv likes to go there and rough them up from time to time, just to remind them who he is and that he fucking hates them. Ray's words of course, but Sam somehow doubts that the official version can come up with something more compelling than that.

`We're gonna bust their sore asses,´ Gene declares, starting up the car and asking for reinforcement on the radio. All in all, he could have been much more graphic, Sam guesses, small mercy.

Saturday was supposed to end hours ago.

Sam puts his head against the passenger seat's window and half-sleeps for a bit on the way there; mostly, it is to avoid taking part in Gene's and Ray's conversation, it's also to try to block their voices out. They are coming up with some half-ass excuse to bust the place – rumours of drug dealing going on between the clients, the bar selling alcohol afterhours, whatever, really. Sam is a bit drunk from Nelson's weak scotch and he knows he shouldn't be on duty, he wasn't, but this is how it goes with Gene. One can't even get a quiet Saturday night anymore. He dozes off while he wonders if he told Annie where he was going, and not to wait up.

He wakes up, feeling suddenly old and like his bones are turning on him, when the Cortina pulls up at the pub's entrance, between a piece of grass full of sheep-shit and a patch of mud made up almost entirely of sheep-shit, surely.

The Calgary stands, unremarkable, under a dimmed neon sign missing the G.

This is years before Manchester has its own Gay Village, years before _Queer as Folk_ put them in the map like a tourist attraction, before Canal Street and all that. Tonight is one of those nights when Gene boasts and tells stories about when, back in the 60s, he used to patrol the pubs and backstreets along the Rochdale canal on a barge armed with floodlights to expose those committing “misdemeanours” as it was officially described in all the files -as Gene reminiscences Sam doesn't bother hiding his disgust. 1973 is still too fucking much for him sometimes.

`You know, homosexuality was made legal in 1967. You have to go with the times, Guv.´

`Not if the times go the wrong way,´ Gene says and Sam knows these people are going to pay his bad mood with their dignity, possibly a bit of their blood.

Gene Hunt falls on the place like a ton of bricks.

Shit, Sam thinks as soon as they open the doors. This not quite like he has imagined. Nothing of glitz and glitter for you. The bar looks shabby, the punters look shabby, in their brown shabby coats and their plain cotton shirts. This is not the seedy hellhole he'd been led to believe. These are no drag queens at the Union pub. These are not the male prostitutes you can see on Spencer Place in Leeds. These are normal, ordinary people who just happened to stumble into a lot of bad luck tonight.

`You know I totally oppose this, right?´ Sam says to Gene between his teeth as the barman looks their way, disparagingly, this is obviously not the first time this sort of thing happens.

`Your concern is duly noted, inspector,´ Gene mocks him.

`You must feel very at home here, eh, boss,´ Ray remarks.

Sam ponder the benefits of reminding his colleagues that, actually, he is having sex with a woman each night, sometimes twice a night (they are in _that phase_ of the relationship) but then he imagines the kind of brutal retribution Annie would exact on him if she found out he's been discussing their sexual life with Gene and Ray. And Sam is, after all, a gentleman. He finds it somehow amusing, that Ray would play that stereotype with him when Sam is in fact the one with the most satisfying heterosexual relationship right now.

Gene and Ray start harassing the barman about papers and permits and Sam starts taking a look around, trying to figure out a way to save most of this men further discomfort. As he stares around him he is overcome by an intense and cheap sadness; all of these blokes living a secret life, never able to fully show everything they are to the people around them. 2006 was no picnic for homosexuals, Sam is the first to admit, but this he is seeing today, well, it's just fucking heartbreaking.

There are little rooms described as “private lounges” and Sam guesses that's where the pub gets its hotel status. It's nothing too bleak and Sam isn't easily shocked anyway; mostly people sharing a drink in private and maybe a make-out session, on the first booth Sam sees one hand tentatively advancing on a thigh and that's as far as it gets. Sam, bored, thinks he's seen far worse on Canal Street on a weekday.

`What the hell-?´ One of the room's occupants starts charging against Sam for intruding on his “moment”. The other one looks more adequately embarrassed.

Sam stops the guy with one hand on his chest and the other waving a policeman's badge.

`Relax, mate,´ Sam says.

`We've done nought wrong.´

`This is an ordinary police inspection,´ Sam replies, thinking you bastard, you are lucky is me knocking on your door.

`Ordinary my ass.´

Sam escorts them to the bar, grabbing the guy's elbow and pushing him outside.

`Just stand there, guys, and answer all the questions my colleagues are going to ask you and you will be in no trouble,´ he hands them over to the uniforms waiting by the jukebox – Suzi Quatro is on.

Sam goes into a second room; same story – he sees two men kissing, one strawberry blonde tall man and a dark-haired young man with his hand already on the other guy's crotch, caressing over the jeans.

In fact, everything looks so unremarkably PG 13-rated that Sam takes a couple of moments to realize that other young man is none other than their own DC Chris Skelton.

`Oh shit,´ Sam mutters.

`Oh shit,´ Chris practically screams.

Sam runs the options in his mind and he knows Chris must be, too, he is not half as daft as he looks. He must be thinking: If the Guv finds me here, he'll kill me.

Sam is not even processing the shock of “wow, Chris is gay”, there are more pressing matters at hand -yeah, bad choice of mental words, Sam kicks himself. Focus, focus. He grabs Chris by the shirt and makes him stand up.

Chris looks like he is about to cry.

The other guy looks at them in stunned silence.

`Boss, this isn't-´ Chris starts.

No, no, no, there's no time for that. The Guv, two doors down. A poof under the wing of Gene Hunt. He can see how that story is going to go down.

`Don't tell me this isn't what it looks like,´ Sam barks. `Like fuck it isn't.´

`But-´

`Shut up, Chris, just- Shut up.´

Sam needs to think and do it quickly. Gene Hunt, two doors down kicking the living shit out of some poor punter and God knows what he would do to Chris. It's almost a question of saving the idiot's life.

`Is there any other exit?´ Sam asks to no one in particular in the room.

The other guy, the guy who was all over Chris a couple of minutes before -Sam feels the temptation of dubbing him “the boyfriend” but now it's not the time- stands up.

`Yeah, there's-,´ he seems intimidated by Sam. `There's a back door. By the kitchen. Goes right by the garbage bins and all.´

Sam nods. He opens the door just a bit, peeks out. It seems like Gene and Ray are still busy in one of the other cubicles.

He grabs Chris by the arm.

`Okay, here's the deal. Go straight home. If anyone asks, you've been home all day, all night. I'll talk to you tomorrow.´

`Boss-´ Chris starts, eyes big as an insect.

`Talk to you _tomorrow_ ,´ Sam repeats. He doesn't want Chris thinking he's done something wrong but he needs to impress the anxiety of the situation on him. Chris could be a bit slow sometimes.

Chris seems to get the hint and fucks off, tripping a bit with the doorframe as he leaves.

Sam turns to the other guy.

`You'd better follow, if you don't want to get your ass kicked by my boss,´ he tells him.

`Thanks, officer,´ the guys mumbles.

Sam rolls his eyes.

`Inspector.´

But the guy is already outside his voice's reach.

Sam thinks, _What the fuck am I going to do with Chris?_

  


  
**II.**   


  
There's a cup of _cold_ coffee left, forgotten on his desk but Sam drinks it anyway.

Everybody else has gone to the pub or to their missus and none couldn't care fuck about writing a report on it. None except Sam, of course. But it's not like he doesn't enjoy the bureaucratic martyrdom.

He welcomes the solitude.

It's not overly lovely but it's nice enough. All the lights out except for the lamp on his desk and the suffused brightness that comes from outside, from reception. Phyllis is doubling nights this week and June is doing the last cleaning rounds now -so all in all it's pretty good non-company.

He's stuck with the paperwork and his brain refuses to come up with some good old corporate-language to talk his way out of the disaster of tonight. Not that anyone cares. As far as the Superintendent is concerned police brutality against homosexuals is merely civic behaviour. In days like this, no wonder, Gene Hunt is a hero around this parts.

He tries to turn the events of tonight into something that doesn't make them look like the homophobic gits they are (Sam includes himself, because he didn't do enough to stop it) – he throws in Gene's remarks about drug dealing and something else about serving alcohol to minors and whatnot.

And yes, Sam is feeling a bit lonely, a bit moody right now, the shock of his encounter with Chris washed away the last bits of drunkenness and now he is going through some sort of forced hangover, more emotional than not, as he writes _no permits to sell alcohol after eleven, as the place is not fit to be a restaurant or a hotel, even if the owner has tried to make it pass for it_. He is not thinking about Chris, can't afford to, he'll think about that tomorrow, Scarlett O'Hara mantra but it does the trick for now, gets him going enough so he can take one more sip of cold, thin coffee.

Then, a hand on the back of his neck, warm, familiar.

`Hello,´ Sam whispers, closing his eyes just a little bit.

`Hi,´ Annie replies, her voice like a glass of cold water on a summer afternoon.

`I told you not to wait up for me,´ he says, hoping it's true.

`No, you didn't,´ she caresses the tense muscles of his shoulder. `Ray and the Guv told me where you've been.´

`They still at the pub?´

`Until Nelson kicks them out, I'm afraid.´

Saturday, Sam thinks, and realizes he hasn't had anything to eat since lunch.

`How was it?´ she asks him.

`Horrible,´ Sam admits, taking her hand and kissing it. `Humans are a shitty species.´

`Wanna talk about it?´

Annie always asks. She will make a good wife, Sam thinks, almost regretful, because he is not sure he would make an equally good husband. He doesn't think he would at all, not tonight.

`No. Chris is in trouble,´ he blurts out. `No, I don't want to talk about it.´

She takes a step away from him.

`Chris? What happened?´

Sam shakes his head, `I can't tell you that. Not yet. Trust me?´

Annie seems to think about it for a moment, then nods. The hand comes back to the back of his neck.

It's an afterthought but Sam realizes that, for all his _Guardian_ -reading, liberal-thinking mentality, Chris may very well be the first gay friend he's ever had.

  


  
**III.**   


  
Sam stands in the little hallway. It's the kind of house where you can smell what they had for tea the day before. Chris' mum is a slender woman twisting her fingers in her hand as a reflex.

`My son has told me a lot about you, inspector,´ she says, shyly, as they both listen to Chris stepping down the stairs, thud thud thud.

Sam likes the woman; she has little nicotine stains under her fingernails and it is Sunday so she doesn't have nail polish on and you can see them. Sam wonders what she would say, if he told her the truth, _excuse me, Mrs.Skelton, I'm here to see your boy about the fact that he was about to give another man a handjob last night_. Sam feels queasy. Why the fuck is he the self-appointed guru of Chris' sexual confusion?

Chris comes down the stairs with a _mum, please_ like a teenager, like she is embarrassing his friends. Sam barely has time to politely say farewell before Chris closes the door and starts pacing nervously around the backyard.

He is wearing his Sunday morning Church clothes, no doubt, in the way his jacket looks a bit too big for him but it isn't, it's just that he is wearing it wrong. He looks awfully young this morning and Sam waits until he finishes pacing, says nothing, mainly thinks it's weird, how he feels such fondness for this young man.

Sam is also, mainly, thinking, this is too awkward for a Sunday morning.

They sit on the curb, like a memory, Chris avoiding eye contact, Sam angry and not sure at what. Maybe angry at Chris after all. Maybe it's not anger, maybe it's just misguided frustration.

`What the hell, Chris?´ Sam starts, because someone has to.

`It's not-´

`It's not what I think, yeah, I know, I know.´

There are a couple of kids kicking a football next door and Sam and Chris spend a couple of minutes watching their game, and in silence.

`Tommy has a Viva,´ Chris says finally.

`Who?´

`The guy... last night...´ Chris tries to gesture but his hands and face are red with embarrasment so he gives up quickly.

`Ah,´ Sam lets out.

`He has a Viva. Red one. It's a good motor.´

Like it makes any different. Poor bastard, Sam thinks again, feeling more like a mother or a father than a superior. But then again it has always been this way between Chris and him. Sam doesn't mind, rather cherish it, his own self-adoring disposition only too happy to play Jedi master with Chris. Now he is thinking gay Jedi jokes, fucking hell. This is no good. He is probably the worst counsellor the LGBT community could hope for.

`How long has this been going on?´ he asks Chris.

`Last night was the first time, boss, I swear,´ Chris tells him, desperate, `I've never-´

`Chris,´ Sam meets his eyes – it's quite scary, when Sam goes all serious on you all of the sudden, everybody says so. `Do you have any idea how lucky you were it was me last night who found you?´

`But-´

`Shut up. Do you know how many cracks your head would have if it had been Ray? And not even talking about Gene. The Guv would probably dump your corpse in the canal if he finds out. The least you could do is be honest with me. You owe me. Big time.´

Chris folds his hands, smashing his knuckles together nervously.

`I know...´ he mutters, very softly. `I know if the Guv...´

Sam realizes, looking at him.

`That's why you haven't said anything to anyone. There's too much on the stake. Right? That's why you haven't come out.´

`Come what?´

`Come out, that when you get out of the closet, when you tell everybody you are gay.´

Chris frowns.

`Who does that?´

`Most people, from where I come from.´

`Wow, boss, Hyde must be full of poofs.´

Sam laughs.

`What?´

`Nothing,´ Sam covers his mouth with his hand. `I'm not laughing at you, Chris. I'm sorry.´

They fall into silence once more, but this time is different, it's lifted.

`I have two older brothers,´ Chris tells him, quietly. `They used to call me fag when I was little and we played ball in the garden. How could they know-?´

Sam shakes his head.

`That doesn't mean anything, Chris. That doesn't mean shit. Everybody at work thinks I'm gay and nobody thinks you are, and look how that works out.´

Chris gives him a look like he is trying to decide if he should be offended by that. Sam wants to say- he wants to tell Chris that it's okay, there's nothing wrong with him, it's the world that's wrong. But somehow he can't bring himself to do just that, like Chris is not the kind of bloke who would want to hear that or maybe Sam is not so inclined to made-for-tv films cheap philosophies like that. It's still twenty years until _Philadelphia_ comes out and there's not so much Sam can do about that, about Chris and his embarrassment.

`How long has this been going on, Chris?´ He asks again.

Chris shrugs.

`And I'm no Man U. scum -no offence, boss- but I've always thought George Best looked as nice as any girl.´

Sam chuckles.

`What?´

`You know, Chris, sometimes you do resemble a normal, interesting human being. It's a pleasure.´

`I thought you too looked as nice as any girl,´ Chris adds, casually, caught up in the nice intimacy of the situation.

Sam rolls his eyes.

`Oh, God, my ego.´

`What?´

`Nothing. Thanks, Chris. I feel very flattered.´

But then Chris buries his face in his hands and lets out a funny noise, between a whimper and a groan.

`I can't be a policeman and a poof,´ he says.

Sam sighs and puts his hand of Chris' shoulder for a moment.

`You can be whatever you want and a poof, Chris.´

`You are not going to tell anyone, are you?´ Chris asks him, as if it suddenly occurred to him, the possibility, and the seriousness of the situation.

`Bloody hell, Chris. The Calgary on a Saturday night. You wanted to get murdered,´ Sam shakes his hand. `Course I'm not telling anyone.´

Chris seems relieved and Sam feels a pang of sadness that they boy thought he could have said anything, like he doesn't know Sam at all. But then he thinks maybe Chris is fucking scared and that's all there is to it, and in no way a reflection of Sam's character.

The kids next door get into a row discussing if right of the kitchen window counts as goal or it doesn't.

`Mum asked me to invite you for a cup of tea,´ Chris tells him, looking like a fourteen year old.

Sam stands up.

`I promised Annie we'd go to the shops before lunch,´ he says. `See you tomorrow at work, Chris.´

`Yes, boss.´

`Tell your mum thanks and that I'll have that cuppa some other day, okay?´

Chris nods shyly.

Sam only takes a couple of steps away from the curb when Chris calls him again.

`Boss...´

`Yes, Chris?´

Chris looks down at his feet.

`You know I know, right. That I was lucky it was you who found me last night,´ he says.

Sam sighs.

`Go home, Chris. See you tomorrow.´

He waves and Chris waves back, maybe smiling, maybe a trick of the light.

Noon sunlight slants across his face and his eyes hurt a bit, Sam thinking it might just be possible he's still hungover. It's a small blessing now, going to the shops, buying bread and cheese and maybe some wine for tonight with Annie. He'll tell her, about Chris, maybe. He doesn't think the “don't tell anyone” extends to Annie because Annie can help, Annie will have a hard tome understanding but she'll understand. And maybe they can help. Chris is going to be alright.

It's all going to be alright.


End file.
